Pylades, Abandoned
by buildabloodybarricade
Summary: Paris, 1832. The rebellion has been crushed, the barricades have fallen. But there is another survivor of the barricade on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. In the aftermath of the June Rebellion, he has lost everything, and he struggles to find a new life, a new way to go on, after the one person he ever truly loved was shot in front of him.
1. Chapter One: Alive

The light startled him when he opened his eyes.

He'd never expected to see it again.

He blinked, and the room came into focus. The light, filtering through the bedroom curtain. The chair beside his bed. The maid, waiting in the corner of the room. For a moment, one peaceful moment, he tried to remember what had happened to him, what he was doing here.

And then the memories flooded back, hazy from the absinthe he could vaguely remember he'd drunk that night: the cries of his friends, the gunshots, the sound of the canons firing. Falling asleep, and then waking up to see Enjolras-

His vision was going black around the edges again, and just before it went entirely dark, he managed to force out a single word to the bewildered servant:

"Apollo…"

The next time he woke up, his father was standing over him with a stern expression on his face. There was a dull pain in his shoulder, and when he tentatively brought his hand to it, he found that it had been bandaged.

His father refused to answer his questions, despite the desperation in Grantaire's voice: _Where was Enjolras?_ Did it matter? _Had the leader, the one that they called Apollo, lived?_ What concern was it of Grantaire's?

It was only late, when his father had left, that Grantaire managed to pose a question to the maid, Marie.

"Where is he? Enjolras... Marie, do you know?"

She looked away.

"Marie!" His eyes were wide, desperate.

"I… I do not know, Monsieur. But- But I heard them say that- that you were the only one living, when they took the others away…"

She trailed off, fiddling with the hem of her apron.

 _No. No, Enjolras wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Grantaire's mind struggled with itself. Was it possible, in the first place, that Enjolras was killed? How could it? Grantaire had been there, had stood by his side. If he had lived, why hadn't Enjolras?_

 _It couldn't be possible. Enjolras had to be alive._


	2. Chapter Two: Musichetta

It was in August of that year that Grantaire left his parent's home for the first time since that June.

He wandered the streets aimlessly, not sure where to go, convinced of only one thing- it was better to be alone, outdoors, than to be back home, under the scrutiny of his father and the fussing of his mother.

But even though he didn't have a destination in mind, he wound up outside the Café Musain.

It was at perhaps six o'clock that afternoon that Musichetta saw him walk in, dressed in a black overcoat, leaning on a cane. She averted his eyes as he walked toward the passageway to the back room.

He sat at one of the tables, staring down at its wood surface. The dark stain, there- where Jehan had spilt a bottle of ink. That deep purple spot- Bossuet had broken a wine glass there. Grantaire rested his head in his hands. How could he know which of them had lived, which of them were gone?

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear Musichetta walk in and come to stand behind him.

"Can I help you, Monsieur?"

He glanced up at her. She was dressed in black, somehow paler than usual. Had she lost Joly? Bossuet?

Both?

Grantaire shook his head. "Je ne sais pas. I don't know."

She sighed. "I… Suppose you want a drink."

He nodded, silent, not sure what to say.

Musichetta left with a soft rustle of skirts, and returned, moments later, setting before him a glass of absinthe, a spoon, a sugar cube, and a carafe of water.

He pushed the sugar aside and poured the water over the spoon, watching the absinthe turn cloudy.

Neither spoke for a moment.

"Musichetta…" Grantaire trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Do you know if Enjolras- If he-"

She glanced away. Grantaire thought she looked somehow- drained. Tired.

"No. He's dead. They all are." Her voice was flat, emotionless.

He stared at Musichetta, struggling to process what she's said, trying to understand.

She shook her head, and walked away, leaving Grantaire to stare at the bottom of his glass.


	3. Chapter Three: Drowned

It was dark when he finally left the cafe, stumbling slightly. His vision was somewhat hazy.

Musichetta hasn't let him pay for his drinks. He could remember the way she had clasped her hands, tightly. "It's the least I can do…" That was what she'd said.

Grantaire didn't know where to go, but he was resolute that he wouldn't go home. Not yet. He couldn't bear the look on his mother's face, the way she treated him as if he were made of glass, or the disapproving scowl of his father.

Although he had never been deeply religious, he felt compelled to go somewhere familiar, and so he found himself in the Notre Dame cathedral. Gazing at the altar, he wondered- where was Enjolras? Could he truly be dead? How was it possible? That word- killed. Dead. He repeated it in his mind, as if trying to understand.

Dead. Dead. Killed. Dead.

And yet, he couldn't imagine a world without Apollo. Without his smile, without his fire, without his voice and his laugh, and the way he carries himself. No- a world without Enjolras was like a world without the sun. Impossible.

He stumbled out into the street, mind reeling. Enjolras- killed. Dead.

The reality began to sink in.

Enjolras- dead. The two words had no place together. Grantaire felt something warm running down on his cheek and raised his hand to brush it away. A tear.

In front of him, he saw the glint of the streetlights on the surface of the Seine. He was near the Quai aux Fleurs- wasn't that where the policeman had been found, drowned? The one that had been at the barricade, the one that Enjolras had ordered somebody to shoot. The water was dangerous there. Even the most experienced swimmer couldn't possibly stand a chance against the pull of the current. It would be so easy just to lean forward, fall in, let the water close over his head.

Would it hurt? Maybe the absinthe would numb the pain. Maybe Grantaire wouldn't feel anything but the cold. Maybe-

He was almost in a daze as he leaned forward, gazing at the water. Enjolras- killed. He'd see him again. Soon.

What was it that Enjolras had told him, that last thing he'd said to him? "You are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, or living, and of dying." He remembered the look on Enjolras's face. Annoyance. Was that all he was to him? A wretch, good for nothing…

But he had taken Grantaire's hand. Smiled at him. The look in his eyes…

Grantaire stared at the light reflected on the water's surface. Enjolras had been wrong. To die- it would be easy for him.

And then he stumbled back from the edge, struck by a single thought- Enjolras wouldn't jump into the Seine. He'd find a way to go on, Grantaire was sure of that. He had always been braver. To die now… It would be cowardice.

And coming to that conclusion, he turned, tugging up the collar of his coat, and walked away, still unsteady from the alcohol.


End file.
